The office lights were dimmed, but Firdaus' screen glowed bright.
Lines. Dots. Charts.
Names flickered at the top of the display: Colwill, Robinson, Rinomhota.
The new feature pulsed softly in the corner of his vision: PLAYER DEVELOPMENT TRACKER – BETA.
He tapped into Colwill first.
The system unfolded a timeline graph—confidence scores rising and falling across weeks. Green spikes matched goal involvements. Red dips followed missed chances. Firdaus hovered over a recent surge: the Sheffield Wednesday match. A tooltip popped up.
[Confidence Boost: +17 | Source: Tactical trust & progressive pass chains]
"Positive feedback loop," Firdaus muttered. "Good."
He moved on to Callum Robinson.
This one surprised him. The tracker showed more than just performance. Leadership tendencies, internal influence. Noticed among peers. Even off-ball communication metrics were tracked.
[Peer Trust Level: 74% | Emergent Leadership Detected | Suggested Role: Secondary Motivator]
Firdaus leaned forward, lips tightening slightly.
"He's not just a runner…" he said, clicking deeper.
The footage correlated with training audio. Small moments—Robinson clapping a teammate, urging focus, stepping into unoccupied leadership gaps.
Finally, Rinomhota. A different story. Physically sharp. But mental turbulence.
[Decision-Making Under Pressure: Inconsistent | Internal Stress: High | Reaction to Bench Status: Neutral-Frustrated]
Firdaus read the notes. Moments where Rinomhota hesitated under press. Delayed outlet passes. Misdirected recoveries. Yet, a footnote flashed:
[Coach Interaction Sensitivity: High – Responds well to 1-on-1 corrections]
He closed the menu.
"Right," he said aloud.
The next morning, training began under a cold, cloud-streaked Cardiff sky.
Players jogged onto the pitch in layers. Ramsey, Ralls, and Colwill led warm-ups, joking quietly. Firdaus stood off to the side, arms crossed, eyes tracking movement like a chess master.
"New format today," he said abruptly. "Split into three groups."
Group 1: Shooting drills. Group 2: High-pressure rondos. Group 3: Tactical channel progression.
The players nodded, moving into positions. But Firdaus had other instructions.
He pulled Colwill aside mid-drill.
"Double tap every third shot," Firdaus said. "Doesn't matter if you score. Repetition."
Colwill frowned, confused. "Coach?"
"You need rhythm, not goals. Right now, you trust the moment, not yourself. Build routine."
Colwill hesitated, then nodded. "Alright."
Firdaus walked away, not offering praise.
With Robinson, it was subtler. He planted him at the center of every drill rotation. When players hesitated who'd speak—Robinson did. It wasn't forced. It became natural. A pattern emerged.
Later, Firdaus walked by the group.
"Robinson," he said without stopping, "handle transitions."
A pause. Then Robinson took over directing switches between drills. He didn't even look back.
And Rinomhota? Firdaus waited until hydration break.
"Walk with me," he said.
The midfielder joined him without hesitation.
Firdaus spoke plainly. "You hesitate when no one's moving. But you wait too long to improvise. Next match, when we're boxed in—don't recycle. Cut through."
Rinomhota stared, wide-eyed. "That's... exactly what I was thinking."
"Then act faster. You see more than most. Stop waiting for permission."
He turned and walked away.
Rinomhota stood still for a moment, then slowly jogged back toward his group, his face unreadable.
Inside, Firdaus' thoughts simmered.
This wasn't magic.
It was just sharper perception. The system amplified what he observed—but it didn't invent talent. That's what people didn't get. They thought systems made you great. But all it did was show the gaps.
And Firdaus? He filled them.
Quietly.
Without applause.
Later that afternoon, the players huddled for cooldowns.
Ramsey nudged Ralls. "You notice anything about today?"
"Drills felt tighter," Ralls said. "Boss had us working habits, not patterns."
Robinson joined in, toweling his neck. "He's getting... I dunno. Sharper. Like he already knows what we need before we do."
Colwill added, "Yeah. Weirdly specific today."
Rinomhota, from the far side, stayed quiet but listened.
No one said it out loud, but they all felt it: training was changing.
So was Firdaus.
Just as the final whistle for training blew, a figure approached from the car park.
Suited. Confident. Familiar.
Ken Choo, Cardiff City's Director of Football.
"Firdaus," he called from across the grass.
The manager turned slowly.
Choo's shoes clicked sharply on the concrete as he reached him.
"Walk with me. There's something you need to hear."
Firdaus narrowed his eyes, but didn't speak.
The two walked side by side toward the training building. The sun had begun to dip behind the stands, casting long shadows across the pitch.
"What you're doing..." Ken began, voice low, "...is working. But it's attracting attention."
Firdaus kept walking. "Meaning?"
"The board wants to meet you. Sponsors too. And someone from the FA asked about your methods."
Firdaus stopped walking.
He turned his head slightly.
"So?"
Ken smiled faintly. "So... we're no longer under the radar."
Firdaus said nothing.
But inside, he already knew.
The next phase was coming.
To be continued...
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